


What Might Have Been

by saraliz78



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Brotherly Affection, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-06
Updated: 2013-09-06
Packaged: 2017-12-25 20:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 7,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/957116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saraliz78/pseuds/saraliz78
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What would have happened if Sam hadn't left home to go to college? Dean and John find out from Missouri about a possible future that was avoided when Sam left to go to Stanford. But, if it was avoided once, can it be avoided again?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Damn it, Sam! Would you get your head in the game? How many times do I have to - "

Sam interrupted his brother. "Sorry. I just - my head - "

" - is all messed up. Yeah, Sammy. I know. Tylenol is in the backseat. Take some and get your head in the game!"

Depression hung over Samuel Winchester like a thick drapery. Right now, it was magnified by a pounding headache, making a simple act like turning his head and paying attention to what Dean was saying a monumental task. The Winchester brothers were back in Lawrence at Missouri's request. Dean had received a voice message on his cell phone that they could expect to see their father there as well.

Dean watched Sam with growing frustration. Something was wrong with his little brother - dammit, when wasn't there something wrong with Sammy? "Did you hear me, bro? We're almost there. About fifteen minutes away."

When Sam made no reply, Dean reached over and shook his shoulder, perhaps a little more roughly than he had intended.

"Sorry, Dean."

Ever since they had gotten out of the hospital, Sam had been withdrawn and lethargic. Which was weird, considering that Dean had received more serious injuries. Sam had become distant and jumpy, a strange combination. Sometimes he wasn't sure if Sam heard a word he said, and other times, the slightest sound or touch startled him terribly. Dean wasn't entirely convinced that Sam's head injury was entirely healed or that it hadn't done more damage than the doctors had thought. Privately, Dean blamed the visions. God only knew what those things were doing to Sam's brain.

"I SAID we're almost there. Any thoughts on what Missouri and Dad wanted us to come here for?"

Sam shrugged. "Not a clue. It'll be nice to be off the road for a while, anyway."

Fifteen minutes later, Dean pulled into Missouri's driveway and shut off the engine. Shouldering their bags, the Winchester brothers walked up to the door and knocked. They were greeted warmly by Missouri.

"Dean! Sam! It's so good to see you again. Your daddy's in the den, maps and papers all over my coffee table, such a mess he's made!" She moved to hug Dean, and he managed to sidestep the gesture, instead, putting an arm around her shoulders and giving a casual squeeze. When she went to hug Sam, his response was different. He sank into her outstretched arms, even letting her run a gentle hand through his silky mop of hair. She barely had to use her abilities to read the waves of despair radiating from the tall young man. "Samuel Winchester!" She gasped as she made eye contact and saw the abject misery reflected there.

Instead of answering her, Sam felt his knees give out, and he slid to the floor in a boneless heap.

Dean was at his side in seconds. "Sammy, you all right?"

"Vision." Sam struggled to stand, but found that his legs were not cooperating. Dean eased his brother into a sitting position, Sam's back braced against his chest, but seconds later, Sam's head lolled lifelessly against Dean's shoulder. Sammy was unconscious.

"John! John, come quick!" Missouri called into the den, and it seemed that John Winchester materialized beside his sons in the foyer.

"What is it? What's the matter with him?" John began checking Sam's inert form for vital signs.

"I don't know. He's been ... off. Ever since the - the wreck, he's been having more visions, sleeping less, and I practically have to beat on him to get him to eat. It's almost as bad as it was right after - after Jess. It's almost like he doesn't want - want to take care of himself. Like he wants to - "

"Die." Both Winchesters looked up at Missouri, who looked somber. "Like he wants to die." She ran her forefinger across the forehead of the unconscious young man. "Oh, baby, what's happened to you?"

***************************************************************************************************************

Between Dean and John, they managed to get Sam to one of the guest bedrooms and stripped down to his boxers to make him more comfortable. Missouri waited until he was safely tucked in before she spoke.

"I think Sam's abilities are reaching out to mine. That's why I'm able to see what - what I saw."

John tore his eyes away from his youngest son to ask, "And what did you see?"

Shaking her head sadly, Missouri replied, "Nothing good. I think I shared in one of Sam's visions. It was presented as an alternate future. I just saw what would have happened if Sam had not left when he did to go to Stanford."

Dean had dropped his aversion to 'chick-flick moments' the moment Sam had passed out. He was sitting on the bed with his brother, gently stroking the straggling dark hair. "What do you mean, what would have happened if he hadn't gone? He went! What does some alternate future deal matter?"

"Because, Dean ... if Sam hadn't left to attend college, he would have committed suicide."

The two conscious Winchesters blanched simultaneously, and Dean stammered, "Wh-what?"

"You heard me, Dean Winchester. If Sam had stayed and fought with you and your father, he would have lasted eight more months. He would have written a note and shot himself in the head."

John lowered his head, letting his forehead rest on his unconscious son's chest. "Why? Why would he do - do that?"

Missouri closed her eyes. "It wouldn't have been the first time he considered it. When he was twelve, he thought about it for the first time. At fourteen, he sat on a motel bed alone while you and Dean hunted. He waited for you to come back for nine hours - for five of those hours, he sat there alone with a loaded gun pressed to the underside of his throat."

Dean felt sick, like he was going to throw up. "Why would he do that? Did something happen to him on one of the hunts? Was he - molested by a demon or something?"

"No, it wasn't anything like that. It was the life you all live. It was the nomadic existence, the pain, the wounds, the risk, the loneliness, the guilt, the constant fear, the hunt. It overwhelmed him, and he felt that he had no outlet. Adolescents are often prone to mild depression during puberty, but in most cases things like friends and hobbies and extracurricular activities help them through those rough times. Sam ... didn't have those luxuries. There was very little pleasure in his life."

Angrily, Dean glared at Missouri. "Don't say that! Don't say 'was' like he's dead or something! He went to Stanford. He didn't off himself. It's just a future that might have been, right? It didn't happen."

Missouri shook her head sadly. "No, it didn't happen. Sam went to college and met Jess, and he was truly happy for the first time in his life. He's depressed because he experienced joy and happiness, only to have it jerked away from him when the demon killed her. He loves you both and wants to feel that his love is reciprocated. Not to mention the visions, but they're taking their toll on him. They anchor him, tie him down, to the hunting life. Even if the two of you gave him your blessing and drove him back to Stanford yourselves, he would still get the visions. You choose to hunt, Dean. You hunt because it's what you have chosen. Sam doesn't have a choice any longer, and I think he's just realized that."

John stared blankly. "Do you think he'll - do you think he'll try to kill himself again?"

"I don't know. I do know that that poor baby's mind is not a happy place to be. He's different than you, different than Dean. Sam needs things that neither of you are terribly adept at giving. He needs to talk about how he's feeling, what he thinks. He needs to feel like he's not a burden, not the weak link for needing your support. It isn't a crime to feel, you know."

Dean felt terrible guilt beginning to gnaw at his conscience. How many times had Sammy tried to talk to him and been rejected? How many times had Sammy cried himself to sleep, trying to stifle the sounds, while Dean lay in the next bed pretending not to hear him? How many times had he complained about chick-flick moments? How often had Sam needed human contact and been denied? How many nights had he awakened with a scream on his lips, crying out for Jess? How many nights had Dean shushed him without letting him talk about it? He glanced at his father. If Dean felt this badly about not being sensitive enough to Sam's needs, how terrible must their father feel about ordering his youngest son to leave after he had declared his intent to attend Stanford? If Dean felt like crap, then their father must be feeling like dog crap right now.

He made the mistake of looking at his brother. Instantly, he pictured Sam at fourteen, holed up in a seedy motel alone, waiting for Dean and John to return. He pictured Sammy pointing his gun at the tender underside of his jaw, hands shaking as he considered pulling the trigger. He imagined his kid brother sitting like that for five hours, imagined what it must have been like for Sam. He felt something die inside of him at the realization that Sam, the smart one, the college boy, might not have a future after all. Dean looked at his father and saw that the man understood what the life he had forced on his youngest son had done to him. Dean remembered calling Sam selfish for leaving to go to college, selfish for wanting to stop hunting. Now that he understood what hunting had done to his little brother, Dean wished he had never said those things. And, he resolved that if Sammy ever woke up, he would tell him so.


	2. Chapter 2

"I don't get it!" Dean slammed his fist down on the bedside table. "Why would he do it? Why would he even think about doing something like that!"

Missouri laid her hand on Sam's forehead, shaking her head. "His dreams are - are broadcasting ... I've never heard of anything like this before."

"What can you tell? Is he asleep and dreaming, or unconscious? Is he having a vision?" John reached out as if to touch Sam's hand, but pulled back.

Dean shot their father a glare. "You can touch him, Dad. It's not catching, or I would have had it months ago." He sat down beside his brother and stroked the straggling locks of brown hair away from Sammy's eyes. "You need a haircut like yesterday, Samantha."

In his unconscious state, Sam turned his head so that his cheek rested against his brother's hand. A desperate whimper parted his lips.

Dean squeezed his eyes closed and whispered, "We'll fix this. Whatever it is you're seeing, remember I'm here and I'm going to fix this."

*************************************************************************************************************************

Samuel Winchester would have given anything to wake up from this nightmare. Would have given anything, done anything to open his eyes and see that the images in his mind were not real. He had watched as a terrifying demon ripped his father's heart from his chest and devoured it. He had watched as Dean threw himself into the fight despite his injuries, determined to kill the creature that had taken his father away from him. He saw Dean crumble to the ground, his ribs crushed by the demon's razor sharp claws. Panic assailed Sam's mind as the horrifying monster licked Dean's blood from its claws and turned toward him.

"Samuel Winchester, you belong to us now."

"No!" Sam clutched the gun his father had given him at the tender age of six in desperation. As the demon advanced, Sam shrank away from the terrifying sight, shaking hands gripped the gun, aiming it at the demon.

The creature laughed. "Now, Sammy. That's not going to hurt me. Shooting won't make a bit of difference."

For a moment, Sam felt despair. There was no stopping this thing, no denying it what it was determined to acquire. Unless ...

Sam steadied his shaking hands and turned the gun on himself, pressing the cold barrel under his jaw. His fingers felt like lead as they fumbled around the trigger. He knew better than to aim for the side of his head. A clean shot up through neck would be most likely to inflict lethal damage. And, if Sam was what the demon wanted, and Sam was dead, his father and brother's deaths would be avenged. The demon would be denied.

As his hand trembled on the trigger, he gazed past the demon to the still forms of his father and brother. I should have done this years ago. I should have pulled the trigger when I was fourteen. If I'd only done this sooner, Dad and Dean would still be alive. I was a selfish bastard. The sight of the bloodied, battered corpses that had once been his father and brother was enough to give Sam the strength he needed. Tears spilled down his cheeks as he firmly and deliberately squeezed the trigger.

****************************************************************************************************************************

"No! No, God no!"

Sam lurched to a sitting position, gasping for breath, his scream still seeming to echo in the air.

Dean was at his brother's side, strong arms wrapped around the younger man, holding him tightly against his chest. Gently, he rocked Sam back and forth, whispering words of comfort. He hadn't held Sammy this way since he was very small, and under normal circumstances it would have been embarrassing, but these were hardly normal circumstances.

"Shh, shh. It's okay, Sammy. I'm here and you're awake. Whatever you were dreaming, it's over, okay?"

John and Missouri watched, both with tears in their eyes, as Dean comforted his distraught brother.

"What happened, Sammy? What did you see? Was it a vision?"

Sam shook his head.

"Not a vision? A nightmare, then?"

Sam nodded, taking deep breaths in order to force himself to calm down.Instead of calming him down, however, he began to hyperventilate.

John sprang into action, racing into the kitchen and returning with a small paper bag. "Breathe, son. Breathe into the bag."

Sam was shaking so badly that he couldn't hold onto the bag, and his father had to hold it in place for him. After what felt like an eternity of listening as Sam gasped and shuddered, trying to bring his breathing under control, they were relieved when his chest rose and fell peacefully.

"Dean?"

Sam turned to his brother, his brown eyes wide and frightened.

"What is it, Sammy? What did you see?"

"The demon. It - it killed Dad, and - and you, and it was coming after me. I should have done it before. Should have - done it. You both died because I didn't do it. I - " He stopped, the memory of the nightmare too vivid.

Dean helped Sam sit up so Missouri could retrieve, fluff, and replace his pillows. "Didn't do what, Sammy? What didn't you do in the dream?"

"Shoot myself. If I'd been able to do it then ... if I die, the demon will leave you alone."


	3. Chapter 3

John Winchester watched from the doorway as Dean and Missouri tended to Sam. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, adrenaline coursing through his veins as though he was running for his life from a demon or a werewolf or a vampire. His son, his Sammy - the little boy he could see in his mind's eye in footy pajamas, digging in a cereal box for the prize - wanted to die. Worse yet, his Sammy had confessed to thinking about killing himself at twelve, and had gotten so far as to hold a gun to his own head at fourteen. John shook his head in an attempt to clear it.

Twelve! At twelve, I was playing baseball and riding my bike! Not thinking about doing myself in! Then, it hit. At twelve, Sam was helping track and kill supernatural beings of evil. At twelve, Sam was helping with research, trained in fighting, and capable of handling a gun and of chanting in Latin. Sam had never even owned a bicycle, never played on a sports team, and had never lived in any one place long enough to make a friend. At twelve, Sam was moody and secretive, hiding his novels and textbooks among his demonic reference tomes and Latin dictionaries. Instead of the occasional bad dream about showing up to school naked or falling from a cliff, Sam dreamed of blood, gore, malevolent spirits and beings, and his desperate fear of losing his brother or father. Was it possible that these visions his son now suffered had begun in childhood? Was the demon they pursued messing with Sammy's head, and had it been doing so even through his dreams when he was a child?

"Dad! Dad, I could use your help here. In case you didn't notice, your boy here is busy telling us that he needs to die." Dean frowned, opening his arms in a gesture of frustration.

Dean sounded angry, but John knew his son well enough to know that he was not angry, but afraid. Paralyzed by fear and indecision, John didn't move, not until he heard a choked sob from Sam.

"You don't get it, Dean! I - I saw it in my dreams, in visions! I have to die, it's the only way to stop this demon! It wants me, that's why it went after Mom and Jess. It will kill everyone I know until it gets to me. I can't live like this, Dean! I can't! If I don't ... do it, I'll have to live the rest of my life on the run, and so will you! I'll never be able to have friends or - or fall in love again, or anything! It'll kill everyone I love, including you and Dad, and I'll be alone. I'd rather die, Dean. I'd rather die! If I do it myself, at least the demon won't get to use me and my - my abilities to hurt anyone!"

The worst part for John was that his mind was so warped and twisted from his life of hunting that Sam's words held a certain kind of logic. If the demon was after John the way it seemed to be after Sam, he could imagine himself blowing his own brains out to spite the demon, and to protect his boys. Sam was thinking like him, and that very scary fact was what finally broke through his emotional shields.

"No! Samuel Winchester, you listen to me and you take what I say to heart. These are orders I'm giving you, and you will do as I say, am I clear, son?"

Surprised, Sam stared at his father.

John continued, "If the demon was capable of defeating us, he would have done so already. Even without your 'gift', we've been able, granted, with some difficulty, to evade it. It's scared of us, of me and Dean, but especially of you. We need to understand and hone this ability of yours, and use it against the demon. My boy is no spoon-bender. My boy is going to learn to throw knives with his mind. My boy is going to lift a goddamn car if that's what it takes! My son is not going to take the easy way out and blow out his own brains when he can put his mind to better use. Do you understand me, Sam?"

Tears poured unchecked down Sam's pale cheeks, and Missouri wrapped her arm around him, pulling him close, his head resting against her shoulder. "No, baby. You can't think things like that. I'll know the minute you do. You mustn't let that abomination have this kind of power over you! Your daddy's right. The demon wants you either under its power or dead because it fears you. The Winchesters, and especially you, Sam, have the power to destroy it."

Dean made eye contact with his father, and John knew that his oldest boy would be Sam's salvation. Through grim determination alone, Dean would keep his brother alive. But, it would certainly help if they could somehow convince Sam that killing himself was out of the question.

"Sam, Dad's right. We're together now, and we're always stronger together, you know that! With you and your Master Yoda on Dagobah routine, we can kick some demon ass! And the sooner we end that soul-sucking parasite, the sooner me and you can spend some quality time getting massages from bikini babes in Tahiti."

At that, Sam managed to make a sound that was almost like a short laugh. Missouri disentangled herself from Sam's embrace, and helped him lay back against the soft pillows.

"His mind is still a mess. After he sleeps some more, he should feel better. This time, he should't have any dreams - I don't usually use my abilities to suppress emotion, especially in someone else, but it was for the best, this time."

John nodded in agreement. Standing next to his son's bed with Dean, he reached out tentatively to stroke the soft, brown hair, something he hadn't done in years. It pierced his heart when Sam's body tensed at the touch. Had it really been so long since he had touched his youngest son with fatherly affection? Sam's visions might be causing and amplifying his emotional distress, but John knew the root of the problem was his own fault. With so many factors eating away at Sam's confidence, he knew his cold, distant behavior had not helped. Right there, at his son's bedside, he made a decision. If they managed to kill this demon and free Sammy from his guilt and pain, he would be the father he'd always meant to be. And if that meant letting Sammy go, dropping him off at Stanford himself, then that was what he would do.


	4. Chapter 4

The seconds ticked by, turning into minutes and then hours as Dean waited for his brother to awaken. The knowledge Missouri had provided about Sam's mental state was tearing out Dean's heart. His baby brother had no quality of life, and had felt that way since he was twelve years old, at least. The hunting lifestyle had so harmed Sammy's psyche that he had begun fantasizing about suicide at twelve, and attempted it at fourteen. And, if he hadn't defied Dad and gone to Stanford against both of our wishes, he would have succeeded in killing himself at eighteen. If my brother had done what I wanted him to do, it would have killed him. He would have put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger ... oh, God! The mental image of his brother doing such a thing was enough to cause a tremor of pure emotion and rage in Dean.

Missouri must have noticed, because she turned to face him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Dean, he's not dead. He's right here, asleep in this bed. Here, touch his hand. He gets calmer when someone is in contact with him."

Dean took his brother's hand, and immediately a flood of images assailed his mind. He glared accusingly at Missouri. "You did this on purpose! Get this crap out of my mind!"

The images began to organize themselves, flipping like pages in a book, and in the distance, he heard Missouri apologize. "I'm sorry, Dean. One of you needed to understand, and you're more likely to be around to help Sam than your father. It had to be you, Dean. You have to understand what the visions are doing to him. Something is wrong. Instead of experiencing visions of people who need to be helped, he's caught, in something like a net of visions. Possible realities are manifesting and broadcasting to me. It's like his mind is screaming at me for help."

Frustrated by his inability to concentrate, Dean glared at the psychic. "So why don't you help him already instead of uploading them all onto my brain, like I'm some kind of damn hard drive?"

"Sometimes things need to be experienced before they can be understood." Missouri ran her hand through Sam's hair, caressing his forehead with a gentleness that was almost motherly. She frowned at the sight of the fading bruising along his hairline and temple. "He's had a head injury recently. Where are these bruises from?"

Still struggling with the imagery that assailed his mind, Dean managed, "The fight with the Demon, and the wreck. He had a concussion."

Missouri gripped both Dean's and Sam's hands tightly. "Concentrate on what you see, Dean. I can't keep this up indefinitely."

Dean used his free hand to stroke his little brother's hair, no longer caring that he was wearing his heart upon his sleeve. "Hang in there, Sammy."

He saw Sammy, in a kneeling position on seedy-looking motel bedspread, a gun pressed to the underside of his jaw. The teenager's hands trembled as he tried over and over again to squeeze the trigger. Tears ran down his pale cheeks, and he let out a cry of frustration at his inability to pull the trigger. Exhausted, he wrapped his arms around his midsection and began to rock back and forth, muttering, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," again and again.

An hour later, the sound of a car door slamming caused Sam to snap to attention, dashing the tears from his eyes, and rushing the gun back to the appropriate case. Dean came inside first, carrying half of the gear and covered in mud and werewolf remains.

"Hey, Sammy! The hunt went really good. Dad and I bagged the werewolf, and there were no mistakes, no injuries, no - geez, Sammy! Show a little enthusiasm, huh? Have you been crying? You look liked somebody just died!"

"Sorry." Sam moved aside, giving Dean enough room to slide past him.

John Winchester strode through the doorway, as muddy and disheveled as his oldest son, and frowned. "Sam! Why are you just standing there? Help your brother get the gear put away and clean!"

The teenager stood there for a moment, staring.

"Samuel, I don't have the patience for your attitude right now. I realize it's difficult to lounge around the motel room all day long watching TV while your brother and I do tedious tasks like killing werewolves, but do you think you could manage to lend a hand?"

Sam blinked, and then moved to take some of the equipment from Dean. While his father and brother took turns cleaning up, Sam cleaned and put away the guns. With a horrible sensation of deja vou, Dean watched as his vision/memory-self shivered at the look on Sam's face. He remembered this day! He remembered wondering what the hell was wrong with Sammy - he winced. He also remembered what he said next, and it wasn't nice.

"Knock it off, Sammy! You're creeping me out with the silent gun-cleaning act. Give it a rest, Norman Bates!"

Softly, his little brother replied, "I'm sorry, Dean," laid down the weapon, and went outside.

Dean remembered this day from his own perspective, and had he known then that his little brother had spent the day trying to kill himself while he was out hunting with Dad, he would never have said some of things he had said. He also hadn't known that Sam had gone outside behind the motel, sat in the dirt with his back pressed against the siding, and cried his heart out.

The vision changed, abruptly. Dean saw himself pulling up in front of the small cabin the Winchesters had been occupying for the last few days. He jogged up the walkway and into the cabin, calling out, "Sammy? Sam! You ready to hit the trail? Dad's got a new lead!"

There was no response, and he tried again, shouting from the living room, "Sammy? You hear me? It's time to pack up! Dad should be here any minute …"

The sight that met his eyes when he entered the bedroom he had been sharing with Sam took his breath away. On the bed, Sam was sprawled out, unmoving, and there was blood everywhere … so much blood. Sam's gun, the one their father had given him for his sixth birthday instead of the stuffed giraffe he had begged for, hung limply from his hand.

"No …"

Dean fell to his knees, clutching his brother's hand. The gun was still warm. Sam's flesh was not.

"No! Sammy, no!"

The blood that was congealing all over the bedclothes had its origin under Sam's jaw line. The exit wound was in the top of his head. Dean clutched his stomach and heaved all of the food he had eaten in the last twenty-four hours onto the floor.

He heard the car door slam outside, and heavy footsteps in the living room.

"Dean? Sammy? Where are you boys?"

He couldn't answer. No matter how he tried, no words would come out. All he could do was stare at his brother's body in shock.

The footsteps were nearing the bedroom door.

"Sammy? Dean? We've got a lot of work to do tomorrow if we're going to find those bones and burn them. In fact, we've got a lot of prep work tonight –"

John Winchester stopped abruptly. "What the - ? Dean?"

"He's dead, Dad. He … he shot himself …"

Their father shook his head in disbelief. "No. No, Sammy wouldn't do that."

Dean shouted, "Yes, he would! He did. Look, there he is – bleeding out and still holding the gun! Oh, God. He killed himself!" Looking over the still body of his baby brother, Dean noticed a piece of paper clutched in Sam's other hand. His own hands shaking so badly that he could scarcely unfold the paper, he confirmed what both men had feared. "It's – it's a suicide note. Sammy killed himself."

"Why?" John took the paper from his son, reading aloud,

" _Dear Dean,_

_If you're reading this, then I'm already dead. I'm sorry you had to find me the way you did. I'm sorry I had to do it, but I had to. Please understand that I had to do it. You know I've never been like you and Dad. I've never liked the hunt, and I hated the credit card scams, but that's not why I did this. The truth is, I've been thinking about it since I was twelve. That's when the dreams started. I thought for awhile if I could get away, go to college or something like that, then maybe the dreams would stop and you and Dad could stop hunting and be happy, but I was fooling myself. In the dreams, I see things. Things that are going to happen. The demon is after me, we all know that. It was my bed that Mom died over, and I think the dreams I've been having are more than just dreams. It promised me that if I were to die, I would belong to it, and it would leave you and Dad alone. I've come close to doing it before, but couldn't. Please don't blame yourself or Dad or even me. The only thing I regret is leaving you behind. You've been there for me since I can remember, and the only good memories I have all have you in them. As I write this letter, I feel lighter than I have in years. It feels like someone took a bunch of rocks off of my shoulders and I can finally stand tall, do something right, and help you and Dad for a change, instead of the other way around. Don't feel sad for me, Dean. I'm finally free, and now you and Dad are too. Be strong for each other, okay?_

_Love,_

_Sammy_

Father and son stared at each other over the letter, a sense of utter horror dawning as the stark finality of what had happened came over them.

As suddenly as it had begun, the vision ended. Dean found himself flung in a different direction entirely. He saw a shy, unsure Sam making his way across a university dining hall. He held an empty tray, and got into line behind a blond girl. When it was his turn, the ladies who worked in the cafeteria placed a scoop of mashed potatoes, some steak, and a ladle full of Brussels sprouts onto his plate.

Sam wrinkled his nose at the greens. "What are the vegetables?"

The lunch lady looked at him askance. "What do you mean, what are they? They're Brussels sprouts!"

Flustered, Sam took the tray and apologized, "I'm sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to insult them. I've just never heard of them, that's all."

"You've never heard of Brussels sprouts? Your mother never made you Brussels sprouts?"

Sam shook his head. "No ma'am. My mother died when I was a baby."

The lunch lady's stern manner melted away. "Oh, honey. I'm sorry to hear that. Your daddy ought to have fed you some sprouts growin' up, but we'll forgive him. Here, have an extra helping of mashed potatoes. You're a skinny one for your height, son!"

Sam accepted the extra mashed potatoes with a shy grin. "Thank you, ma'am." He moved down the line to get his drink and a dessert platter of Jell-O.

In line behind Sam, the blond girl giggled, scooting her tray closer to Sam's. "Hi."

Startled, Sam replied, "Hi."

She extended her arm to shake hands. "I'm Jessica."

The shy smile was back on Sam's face as he said, "Sam."

"Well, Sam. Would you like to eat lunch with me?"

He nodded, picking up his tray and following her to one of the smaller booths in the dining hall.

While Jessica ate, Sam picked nervously at his meal.

"So, Sam. What's your major? I'm still majoring in 'undecided' at the moment, but my parents are okay with it. They told me to take my time and just take classes that interest me until I make up my mind. What about you?"

"I'm pretty sure I want to do pre-law."

She laughed, her smile lighting up her entire face. "Must be nice to already be so focused. I bet your family's proud!"

The expression that crossed Sam's face tore at Dean's heart. Jessica watched her lunch date with growing concern as he nearly choked on a Brussels sprout and struggled to reply.

"Not really. My family – my dad and my older brother – aren't much on education."

Her tone was one of incredulous surprise. "But – but you're obviously smart! I mean, you got into Stanford. It's not easy getting in here, surely they know that?"

Sam shrugged. "It wouldn't have mattered if it was Stanford, Harvard, Kansas State, or a junior college."

"Are they at least helping you financially?"

He shook his head. "No. I got in on a scholarship."

"A scholarship? To Stanford? And they're not proud of you?"

"They were pretty mad at me for leaving."

Jessica got up from her side of the booth and scooted in next to Sam. "Well, I like smart guys. A lot. Are you seeing anyone right now?"

Sam made eye contact and smiled. "I see you."

"Smartass. I was trying to ask you out tonight. Do you want to go to a movie with me? Maybe get coffee afterwards?"

"I'd love to."

"Good. It's a date!"

The vision ended, and Dean struggled to regain his breath. Missouri let go of his hand, and he let it fall limply to his side. Seeing the alternate future as it played out in Sam's vision was more than the older brother could bear. Tears stood out in his eyes, and hung there for a moment, as if they were afraid to fall. Finally, Dean understood the seriousness of his brother's dissatisfaction with the hunting life. He understood in glaring detail how it had chipped away at Sammy's confidence, and he understood how he and their father had not helped. He understood and he was determined to make certain that it never happened again.

Things changed now, here and now. Starting now, there would be no discouraging of talking about Sam's emotions. If Sam wanted to talk, then Dean would talk. There would be discussion, not barked orders. There would be nutritious foods, not greasy spoon du jour, and above all else, there would be love. Dean swore to himself that never again would his little brother be left alone, unsure of how much he mattered to his older brother.

"Missouri?"

"Yes?"

"I think I need to …"

His words trailed off as he felt his knees go weak. Exhaustion pervaded his every movement to the point that if he hadn't already been sitting down, he would have fallen down. Was this how Sam felt after one of his visions?

Missouri didn't need for him to finish his thought. She scooted Sam's sleeping form onto the other side of the double bed, then guided Dean's head to the pillow his brother's head had rested on. She removed Dean's shoes, and then tossed a light comforter over his body.

The two young men lay sound asleep in the bed, Dean still fully clothed. She left a lamp on, knowing that darkness was not what they needed. Rest, lots and lots of rest was Missouri's prescription for both of their ailments at the moment. If she had her way, the Winchester boys would sleep for several hours, undisturbed.


	5. Chapter 5

Dean was the first to awaken. He opened one eye, and saw that Sam was still asleep beside him. Sitting up, he let out a groan. His head didn't exactly hurt, but it felt oddly stuffy, as if he was about to get a cold. He could smell bacon cooking downstairs, and fresh coffee brewing. Stretching his tired muscles, Dean slid off of the bed and started for the door, only to be stopped by the sound of his brother's voice.

"Dean?"

Sam's voice sounded sleepy, but normal. Dean couldn't hear any of the pained underscoring he'd heard yesterday. He turned, almost reluctantly to face his brother.

"Yeah?"

Struggling with the tangled comforter, Sam sat up, his brow creased in confusion.

"I dreamed some weird stuff. Did I have a vision? I can't remember …"

The temptation so go with it, to pretend nothing untoward had occurred and pick up where they'd left off was great, distressingly so. It had taken a severe shock to reveal to Dean just how ingrained his tendencies to gloss over emotional issues were, and the strength of his desire to brush it off, even knowing everything he now knew, made him feel sick. What kind of brother would want to sweep something like suicide under the rug? What kind of person was he, that he had even entertained the thought? Unwilling to let his own comfort zone stand in the way of ensuring that his brother continued to live, Dean walked back across the room and sat on the edge of the bed. Sammy deserved the truth from him.

"What's the last thing you remember, Sammy?"

Sam yawned and rubbed at his left temple. "Head hurts."

"You hurt it in the wreck, and then you had a pretty powerful vision. Do you remember that?"

The younger Winchester rubbed at his temple again, straining to remember. "We went to meet Dad at Missouri's. We got out of the car and I – I think I had a vision. I remember falling, and then…"

He fell silent, a look of horror crossing his face.

"You had a vision that Dad and I were killed and you were out of your head delirious. You thought you needed to kill yourself so the demon would leave us alone."

Sam gasped, surprised that Dean would get to the emotional heart of the matter so quickly and sincerely.

"Your psychic geek-boy powers went wacky and started broadcasting your previous visions, past memories, and projected possible futures into Missouri's head. She –"

Sam interrupted, still looking horrified, "She didn't … tell me she didn't tell you or Dad what – what she saw?"

Shaking his head, Dean sighed. "No such luck, Sammy. She told us. We know your visions first started when you were twelve, manifesting themselves as nightmares. We know that you – that you thought about killing yourself then, and actually tried to off yourself when you were fourteen. God, Sammy! If I'd known, I wouldn't have said those things, Dad wouldn't have, either!"

It didn't seem as though Sam was even hearing him. As a matter of fact, it looked like his massively tall little brother wanted to disappear into the down comforter.

"Sammy!" Dean winced as his tone sounded sharper than he'd intended. "Sammy, don't hide from this, from me! I – I didn't know you'd considered it, or tried it, and I sure as hell don't want you to ever consider or try it again. If that means we talk about our feelings until I have to change my name from Dean to Deanna, then that's what we're going to do!"

Dean's speech brought fresh tears to Sam's eyes. Too tired and confused to hold them at bay, he let them slide slowly down his cheeks. "Really?"

Through the tears, Dean thought he could see a glimmer of hope or comfort or something like it in his brother's eyes. Was this really all it took to keep his Sammy in working order? Could something so simple as an offer to talk and listen really help in any meaningful way?

"Yes, really. Listen, I know it's late in coming, but you need to understand something, little brother. You need to understand that if you ever – ever died, especially by your own hand, I would NOT be okay. If I didn't blow my own brains out to join you, I'd probably drink myself to death or walk out in front of a bus or something. Not even killing the yellow-eyed demon is worth losing you. Am I clear?"

Sam nodded.

"Good. Now, we need to get some food into you. You've been picking around for days. "

"But I'm not –"

"Don't care. You're eating something, end of argument."

"Okay."

Dean had been all prepared for an argument, and so when Sam agreed without a struggle, he was caught by surprise. Eyeing his brother distrustfully as though he expected Sam to have some sort of trick up his sleeve.

"You stay put. I'll go downstairs and get us both some breakfast."

The anxious look that crossed his brother's face pulled hard at Dean's heartstrings. Sam didn't want him to leave – was he worried that Dean wouldn't come back, or that their father or Missouri would come while Dean was gone?

"Dad and Missouri are downstairs. I'm going to get us some food and come right back."

The anxiety seemed to be slightly relieved. "And then we'll talk?"

"Until you're blue in the face."


End file.
